


What A Bouquet

by TheCurat0r



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coma, Dimension Travel, Evans family - Freeform, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Language of Flowers, Modern Characters Everywhere, Modern Girl in the Wizarding World, Reincarnation, The Dursleys' A+ Parenting, Transmigration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:21:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22368637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCurat0r/pseuds/TheCurat0r
Summary: Interacting with Petunia Dursley is an exercise of patience.  Without time served in the Eternal Void, Mari doubts she could manage it.  Listening to Petunia describe her—their?—family still tests it.“What about our nephew?”Mari asks only when Petunia breaks for a breath after a long-winded personal essay about how her Duddykins hung the moon.  Petunia’s gaze shutters and her lips twist as if Mari has interrupted her.“The boy is,” Petunia raises her teacup to her lips, “disturbed.”Mari curls her own hands around her cooling teacup and imagines tossing the Earl Grey into Petunia’s face at the blatant dishonesty.“Losing both of your parents would disturb anyone,” Mari comments and raises her teacup for a sip.That’sthe tea.
Comments: 454
Kudos: 1531
Collections: A Collection of Beloved Inserts, Fics That Should Be Adored and Loved, Reincarnated as a original character, Reincarnation and Transmigration, Stories That Deserve More





	1. Of Lilium Longiflorum

Marigold Evans blinks up at the doctor at the end of her hospital bed and tries to parse out what he’s saying beyond the **wah wah wah** that she hears like a child in a _Peanuts_ cartoon. Her eyes keep watering at the too bright lights until they dim partway through the trombone noises coming from the doctor and her gaze flits to the doorway. A nurse offers her a comforting smile. Mari returns it out of reflex.

“—co-ma—”

“I’m sorry,” Mari croaks, “what?”

The doctor frowns at her, while the nurse brings her a cup of ice chips to suck on.

“You’ve been in a coma for the last ten years, Miss Evans.”

“Oh,” Mari says, instead of the questions running through her mind like: What are you talking about? – or – Why did you call me Miss Evans?

“Can you tell me the last thing you remember?” the doctor asks in a gentler tone.

Mari thinks on the last thing she remembers and immediately discards that level of honesty in favor of running through what she knows about comas from daytime television. She decides to play the usual amnesia card and resists the urge to sigh in relief when this move proves a success. Wherever she is and whoever they might think her to be, she would rather get a better idea of her situation before revealing too much.

The doctor asks her not to worry too much about her memories and reassures her that they could return in time.

“Honestly, it’s a medical miracle that you’re awake right now,” the doctor confides with a note of pride that suggests he had a hand in it. “I’ve already devised a comprehensive plan for your recovery.”

“My recovery?”

“Well, yes, Miss Evans,” the doctor says with a note of amusement, “I’m afraid that a decade in bed does little for muscle development.”

Mari decides to wait until the doctor leaves to take a peek beneath her bedcovers. She fears that her reaction might be more extreme than she’d like with an audience.

“But let’s not worry about that just yet,” the doctor almost reprimands, as if he didn’t bring it up.

Mari tries not to let her growing resentment show.

“We’ve called your sister and she should be arriving soon.”

“Okay,” Mari says with relief she can’t hide, hoping that one of her sisters will be able to fill her in on what’s going on.

…

This woman is not one of her sisters.

A thin brunette woman in a floral dress with a pinched face and glistening pale eyes stands in the doorway to her hospital room, wringing her hands.

“Do—Do you remember me?” the woman asks in a shaky voice.

Mari stares at this woman so clearly on the brink of tears, who expected to find her recently awakened sister in this bed, and tries to think of anything she could possibly say to not make this any worse.

“Petunia?” Mari blurts instead because, 1) she always had trouble leaving questions she didn’t know the answers to blank, 2) she is a Potter nerd through and through and the resemblance is uncanny, and 3) her restraint, despite what she likes to believe, is not ironclad.

The woman bursts into tears.

_Shit._

One moment the woman’s thin frame is heaving with sobs across the room, and in the next, Mari stiffens as she finds her face pressed into a bony, floral patterned shoulder.

“Oh, Mari,” the woman whispers into Mari’s hair. Her next words slip out low enough that Mari doubts they were meant for her. “I knew _you’d_ never forget me.”

Mari’s gaze flits around the room before landing on the bouquet of white lilies[1] on the table beside her.

_Double shit._

…

So. 

It’s 1985, and Mari is Marigold Evans, the younger muggle sister of Petunia Dursley and the late Lily Potter.

Okay.

This is fine.

At least she isn’t dead anymore, right?

Mari peeks beneath her bedcovers at her toothpick thin legs.

She bursts into tears.

...

* * *

[1] Lilium Longiflorum, also known as the “Easter Lily” or the “White Trumpet Lily.” Associated with purity, chastity, and resurrection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will admit to doing a fair bit of research on comas and the experiences of comatose people after waking, so if any of this seems too far-fetched, well _*waves hand*_ this _is_ a piece of magical fiction... The discrepancies will be largely explained within the narrative as the story goes on. 
> 
> Also, while there will be footnotes on flora throughout this story, these notes will often only include relevant information to the narrative.
> 
> Anyway, I've been wanting to try my hand at this trope for ages. I finally have enough written of one of my ideas to start posting.  
> Comments are the lifeblood of this author, so if you enjoyed this, please let me know!


	2. Of Marigolds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a very brief reference to sexual assault and pedophilia. Nothing of that nature has happened, but Mari does briefly address the possibility as her mind wanders.

“Those are lovely,” Allison comments as she strides in with Mari’s breakfast, a peculiar weight to her tone.

Mari follows the nurse’s gaze to the bouquet of white lilies at her bedside, still as fresh as when she first noticed them days ago.

“Oh, yeah, they are.”

Allison raises her eyebrows and her lips curl into a secretive smile that makes Mari’s purse. Had the flowers come from her? The idea, though odd, certainly made more sense than Petunia.

“Um, yes, they are lovely,” Mari corrects herself, hoping her gratitude is more evident this time. “Thank you.”

Allison pauses after placing the cups of water and jello onto Mari’s tray to blink down at her.

“Oh! They aren’t from me…” Allison’s smile falls into a frown, though her gaze still seems kind as she hands Mari a small spoon. “You didn’t see who they came from?”

“No.”

Allison huffs out a sigh.

“What a shame,” Allison murmurs. “The other nurses and I have had a bet going, you see—about who has been leaving you those flowers. Any ideas?”

Mari tilts her head as she swallows a spoonful of cherry jello.

“I just assumed they came from Petunia.”

Allison shakes her head.

“I’ve been taking shifts in the long-term care unit for the last several years and—” Allison cuts herself off with a wince. “I mean—”

“So, Petunia hasn’t been visiting.”

Mari’s gaze drifts to the bouquet again. Hmm.

“I’m sorry, I-I could be wrong,” Allison rushes, “and she could be visiting during my off hours…”

Mari shrugs, shooting a smile at Allison.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Well,” Allison continues in a tone that says she will worry about it, “don’t let that get you down, Mari. Someone has definitely been visiting you regularly—and with such beautiful flowers, too!”

“How long have they been bringing me these?”

Allison looks up from Mari’s chart with a laugh.

“Since before I transferred here.” Allison presses her hand into her chest as if she might swoon. “Whoever he is, he must be quite taken with you.”

Mari frowns at the white lilies that are seeming more and more like a threat.

“The doctor said I’ve been in a coma since I was ten,” Mari points out, though why she has to is beyond her.

If the culprit is a male suitor as Allison seems to think, then they’re definitely a creep. Who else becomes “taken” with a comatose ten-year-old? A pedo with a somnophilia kink, that’s who.

Mari shudders and tries to ignore the Kill Bill siren now blaring through her mind.

Nope.

Nope. Nope. Nope.

“Maybe it’s a boy from your neighborhood?” Allison offers and Mari tries not to scowl at the eagerness in her tone. “Someone you went to primary with?”

Those options, while not as disturbing, fail to comfort Mari at all. Bad enough she has to navigate her relationship with Petunia. Adding some dude with an unhealthy attachment sounds like trouble that Mari could do without. Mari eyes the bouquet. Not to mention the obvious connections that could be drawn to Lily Potter.

“Ionno,” Mari hums.

Allison offers a smile full of understanding. Mari can appreciate the thought, even if it is misplaced.

“Well,” Allison clasps her hands together, “in the meantime, think how exciting it is to have an anonymous admirer!”

“Ah, yes,” Mari returns, “a secretive stalker.”

Allison snorts, the bun at the base of her neck bobbing as the brunette turns toward the doorway with a shake of her head.

“You enjoy the rest of your breakfast, Mari,” Allison tosses over her shoulder, “and I’ll see you at lunch.”

“Sure.”

The door clicks shut and Mari sticks her spoon back into her jello cup with a sigh. Finding out she’s in the leading role of the nursing staff’s favorite soap opera is a little…much. Which is really saying something, considering her current family ties.

_Drop a heart, break a name,_ Mari hums.

A popping noise draws Mari’s gaze to her bedside table, where clusters of red, orange, and gold toned flowers[2] swiftly overtake the white lilies that used to make up the bouquet.

Mari’s eyes widen. A delighted giggle spills out and she clasps her hand over her mouth as sheer joy threatens to bubble up out of her chest.

Okay.

_Okay._

“ _I’m_ my own secret admirer,” Mari murmurs in a tone on the brink of laughter. Her smile grows so wide that she finds herself pressing her front teeth into her bottom lip just for an anchor in the wave of joy and wonder cresting in her chest.

Mari reaches out and gasps as the gold spreads up one of the blossoms at her touch, almost undulating under the pad of her index finger.

“Wow,” Mari breathes.

…

It’s 1985, and Mari is Marigold Evans, the younger ~~muggle~~ sister of Petunia Dursley and the late Lily Potter.

What a time to be alive.

… 

* * *

[2] Marigold. Associated with despair, grief, and jealousy, as well as passion and creativity.


	3. Of Chamomile & Dahlias

Interacting with Petunia Dursley is an exercise of patience. Without time served in the Eternal Void, Mari doubts she could manage it. Listening to Petunia describe her— _their?_ —family still tests it.

“What about our nephew?”

Mari asks only when Petunia breaks for a breath after a long-winded personal essay about how her Duddykins hung the moon. Petunia’s gaze shutters and her lips twist as if Mari has interrupted her.

“The boy is,” Petunia raises her teacup to her lips, “disturbed.”

Mari curls her own hands around her cooling teacup and imagines tossing the Earl Grey into Petunia’s face at the blatant dishonesty.

“Losing both of your parents would disturb anyone,” Mari comments and raises her teacup for a sip.

**_That’s_ ** _the tea._

Petunia’s gaze softens and Mari raises an eyebrow in surprise. A show of empathy? In _this_ economy!?

“They never gave up hope, you know.” Petunia’s lips shift into a small smile when she catches the perplexed look on Mari’s face. “Mother and father. They always said you’d wake up…in your own time.”

Mari looks away. The vase holds a bouquet of daisies[3] today. A better choice than petunias, considering how they might’ve wilted alongside her flicker of hope that their namesake could be capable of showing basic human decency. What a shame for Mari to have also proven the Evans’ parents wrong with her very presence.

Then again, supposedly, those people and their favoritism of their magical daughter only fostered resentment between Petunia and Lily, so really, their unfelt shame should cancel out her own.

_Emotional Mathematics for the win!_

Mari raises her teacup for another sip. Goddamn does she hate tea. A nice mocha would hit the spot right about now.

“What happened to them?”

Petunia sets her teacup down with a sharp clink.

“An accident.”

Mari cradles her teacup, keeping her expression blank. Petunia refuses to meet her gaze for the remainder of her visit, which she cuts short to complete a forgotten errand.

_An **accident** , my ass._

Clusters of almost sharp burgundy flowers[4] overtake the bouquet of daisies like a floral mood ring.

…

When Petunia visits, she always comes alone.

Mari taps the side of her thumbnail to her bottom lip and wonders how she might change that.

…

* * *

[3] These are not, in fact, Daisies, but Chamomile. They share similar flowers, but can be differentiated by their leaves. Chamomile has been associated with rest, relaxation, and “energy in adversity.”

[4] Dahlia, also known as the “Black Dahlia” when referring to ones of a deep red or burgundy shade. Although red dahlias symbolize power and strength, the deeper burgundy variant are associated with betrayal and dishonesty.


	4. Of Rain Lilies & Kalmia

Decade long coma aside, Mari has always been a light sleeper. And, in fact, it is not _her_ that spent decades in that coma, so it’s all a moot point anyway. The real point here is that, as a light sleeper, a loud crack is more than enough for her to flinch awake.

A thin man clad in black stands in the corner of her hospital room.

“Not today, Slenderman,” Mari threatens, despite how her hands shake as she holds the glass vase of flowers aloft.

Stupid muscle loss.

“I mean you no harm,” a smooth voice says from the shadows. A hesitant pause. “Please…put down the vase before you hurt yourself.”

“Oh yeah,” Mari sneers, ignoring the numbness overtaking her bony arms through sheer force of will, “that’s real convincing coming from the strange man hiding in the shadows of _my_ room.”

The man sighs but steps forward and Mari almost drops the vase.

“Severus Snape?”

The thin man in black robes with the long nose and even longer dark hair almost steps back, before catching himself and sliding back into his usual aloof demeanor.

“I admit to some surprise that you remember me,” Snape sniffs.

Mari cradles the vase of now star-shaped red and yellow flowers[5] in her lap to give her arms a rest.

“You were Lily’s best friend,” Mari points out, a comment as unnecessary and painful as her very presence in this world.

Mari mentally shoves those kinds of melodramatic thoughts aside. Physical therapy had been rough that day, without the extra strain this man has already caused on her arms, as well as her heart. She watches him gather himself. Morally grey bully and “nice guy” aside, Mari does feel bad for Severus Snape.

“Many things have…changed,” Snape admits, “as you have slept.”

“Yes.”

Mari curls her aching legs around the vase in her lap, trying to ignore the heaviness in her breath from the effort. Snape watches her with the air of someone who can read all of her flaws. Mari supposes that is only fair, considering she knows so many of his.

“You seem…different…from what I expected.”

Mari blinks up at Snape—why, he is positively _chatty_. Some of her long, red hair slides over her pale shoulder as she shrugs and she wonders if it’s the resemblance. Thank goodness she doesn’t have green eyes or this might be like looking at a ghost for him.

“Oh,” is all Mari can think to say as she averts her gaze, wondering how close Snape might’ve been to the little girl she has replaced.

As far as JK Rowling is concerned, Marigold Evans never existed, so why does Mari still feel like such a thief?

A familiar popping noise eats up the silence and Mari flinches.

Snape’s gaze snaps to the vase of transfiguring flowers in her lap like a shark smelling blood in the water.

“You have magic.”

Mari stares down at the bouquet of pink-accented, white bowl-shaped flowers[6] and thinks very hard at her magic.

_I don’t speak flower_! 

“Please don’t tell Petunia,” Mari says to Snape because, despite the low chances of those two interacting, she _really_ can’t afford to alienate the only living adult family member she has in this world. Not yet.

Snape levels her with a probing stare. The increasing rise of his nose as he peers down at her suggests he finds what he is seeing to be lacking. Mari tries not to bristle at that.

“Kalmia,” Snape says at last with a pointed glance at the bouquet in her lap, “otherwise known as Spoonwood.”

Mari blinks up at him. She might not speak flower, but apparently, Snape does. She shouldn’t be surprised, considering his mastery in potions. Still, Mari lets her impressed feelings show. Credit where credit is due, after all.

“A genus from the Ericaceae family, symbolizing perseverance,” Snape continues in a smooth tone, “or…treachery.”

Mari grimaces, but refuses to avert her gaze. Her mental will is one thing she has absolute confidence in. She did not fracture in the Void, she will not fold beneath the likes of Severus Snape, skilled Legilimens or not.

“Is that an accusation?” Mari asks, her tone almost conversational.

“Merely a statement of fact.”

Mari hums. Part of her wonders if she is making a mistake in speaking with Snape. Lack of memories of this Marigold’s life aside, she knows her vocabulary is hardly befitting of a supposed ten-year old. Another part of her struggles to care. Mari elects to go with this latter part. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say.

“I might not remember much,” Mari weighs her next words, “but I know that Lily having magic caused a rift between them.”

“So, you would deceive your precious Tuney,” Snape sneers, “and hide who you are?”

Mari sighs, but levels Snape with a probing stare of her own.

“I’m not ashamed of who I am.” Of taking someone’s place, perhaps, but not of who she is. Not anymore. “But I just woke up from an accident I don’t remember, to find out that decades have passed and both my parents and one of my sisters are dead. I don’t know where I’ll live or how I’ll afford to eat and I can’t even—” Mari grits her teeth as her voice cracks, “I can’t even fucking w-walk, so—“ her next breath ends on a shudder, “you’ll forgive me if I don’t want to piss off the only person still alive to care.”

For once, Snape seems at a loss for words. Mari can’t even feel any vindication over that. She has shown more of her cards than she intended. Physical therapy really had been rough that day. Rough enough to make even her determination falter. Snape had the worst timing.

“You are also…different…from the Marigold I remember,” Snape says in a quiet tone that reveals nothing.

_Ha, ha, wonder why._

“Many things have changed,” Mari repeats his earlier words, her arms shaking as she places the vase back onto the table beside her with a clink, “since I’ve slept.”

Snape eyes her, but like his voice, they also reveal nothing.

“My apologizes for waking you at such a late hour,” Snape offers with an incline of his head, “and…my condolences.” He twists on the spot and disappears with a sharp crack.

Mari stares at the space Snape used to occupy and sighs. Her legs still ache, but she wriggles down and drops her head onto her pillow anyway. She read once that just adopting a sleeping position and shutting your eyes could be restful.

The pillow cradles Mari’s cheek as she turns her head to gaze at her latest mood. 

Perseverance or Treachery.

_What are you trying to tell me?_

… 

* * *

[5] Zephyranthes, also known as the “Rain Lily” or the “Fairy Lily.” Associated with rebirth, new beginnings, and big expectations.

[6] Kalmia, also known as “Spoonwood.” Associated with perseverance, but can be given as a sign of treachery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's hilarious to me that the Snape chapter coincides with Valentine's Day and involves Mari brandishing a vase at him. This timing was not intentional.
> 
> MARI  
> Rose are red  
> Violets are blue  
> If Snape skulked in your room  
> You'd throw something, too.
> 
> SNAPE  
> [snide] Violets aren't blue.
> 
> MARI  
> No, but your face is about to be black and blue. YEET
> 
> [CRASH]


	5. Of Chamomile

If interacting with Petunia Dursley is an exercise of patience, then occupying the same room as Dudley Dursley is a feat worthy of sainthood.

Patience, Mari may have earned in spades, but a saint she is not.

…

The bouquet of daisies[7] stand vigil at Mari’s bedside, having returned following Petunia’s cursory call to announce her impending arrival with her son. Whatever these flowers might represent, Mari has underestimated them. To withstand what they have… She will never look at girls named, “Daisy,” the same again.

“ **Mari**.”

Mari resists the urge to laugh at Allison’s tone.

_Aha, I’m in danger._

“Uh…yes?”

“You _cannot fake_ a _medical emergency_ ,” Allison inhales, shifting the wayward curls framing her face, “just to _escape your family_.”

“Well, considering that it worked…?”

A strangled noise comes from Allison’s throat.

“Okay, okay,” Mari rushes, “I’m _sorry_. But c’mon, you heard that yelling, right?”

Allison pinches the bridge of her nose.

“And? You were _faking a medical emergency_ ,” Allison grits out. “That tends to get a strong reaction.”

Mari shakes her head with wide eyes full of a profound horror that few could endure and still retain their sanity.

“That was my nephew, Dudley. He was yelling _because_ ,” Mari leans forward in her bed to better deliver the terrible news, “the vending machine is _out of chocolate bars_.”

Allison stares. Mari watches her gaze widen as the words register.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Serious as a heart attack.”

Allison scowls.

Mari offers an apologetic shrug.

Allison sighs long and deep, pinching her nose.

“Fine,” Allison says. “But next time—”

Mari perks up.

“ _Next time_ ,” Allison insists, “just call for me. No more fake emergencies.”

“This emergency was not fake,” Mari points out, raising her hands when Allison glares, “but I agree to your terms.”

Allison rolls her eyes. Mari grins.

“A chocolate bar,” Allison murmurs. “Really?”

Mari’s nod is solemn.

… 

* * *

[7] Mari still does not know the difference between daisies and chamomile. Chamomile, as has been previously mentioned, is associated with, “energy in adversity.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are...the last of the pre-written chapters...  
> Wish me luck, as I attempt to maintain this weekly update schedule!  
> ୧| ⁰ ᴥ ⁰ |୨


	6. Of Goldenrod & Spoonwood

A week after Snape’s impromptu nighttime visit, Mari flinches awake again sometime in the night.

“M’what?” Mari asks, bleary-eyed.

Something taps at Mari’s window. It’s an owl. There’s an owl at her window. 

Mari considers pretending she didn’t see it and going back to sleep. 

The owl taps again. Mari takes a deep breath.

Mari likes birds. In theory. From afar. 

The next tap is more impatient.

Mari grimaces, but starts the arduous task of sliding out of her hospital bed, careful not to tangle the tubes of her IV pole as she wheels it closer. Each step winds her further, but the owl refrains from anymore tapping, almost as if it knows she’s on her way. Considering its vocation in the Wizarding World, it wouldn’t be surprising if it did.

The window nearly slips from Mari’s weakened grip, but she manages to lift it high enough to lock it into place through sheer stubbornness. Frustration wells within her, even so. Although only what someone might consider on the cusp of muscular during the height of one of her workout phases, she never really felt physically weak. Trapped, perhaps, by situations out of her control, sometimes even under the mercy of someone physically threatening, but never actually weak. Even when her muscles slipped off her bones along with the other flesh and viscera of her Being, she…she never…

Mari grinds her teeth in a momentary lapse which she corrects by unlocking her jaw and reminding herself that she has enough problems already without adding future dental work.

The owl shrieks at her and extends a leg.

A mental alarm rings just before Mari’s fingers make contact with the brown package. Many things can transfer through skin contact—curses, poisons, or maybe even fecal matter from traveling the skies alongside other birds. She has no way to know who sent this, nor whether their intentions might be malicious. The smart thing would be to insulate herself as a precaution.

The owl shrieks again with a snap of its beak and Mari flinches before delivering a heartfelt mental _fuck it_ as she unwinds the twine around the owl’s ankle, tilting her head away as if that might spare her having her eyes pecked out should the creature feel an inclination to do so. 

“It’s cool, we’re cool,” Mari mutters to the owl, taking a large step back once the package is free and bumping into her IV pole. “Oh, shit, fuck.” She tosses the package onto the bed behind her with a grimace.

_As if the five second rule could save her now._

“That doesn’t even work on germs,” Mari says, eying the package.

When neither Mari’s blankets nor her hand disintegrates into ash, she steps forward and sits atop the bed to finish unraveling the twine from the package itself. The sound as she tears the brown paper off seems almost more disruptive than the owl’s screeching had been. Her gaze flicks to the door. A good minute passes before she exhales a heavy breath and redirects her attention back to the package.

Beneath the brown paper sits a bare wooden box whose lid lifts easily enough to reveal a pile of packed straw and a folded piece of parchment. A quick glance at the vase beside her bed shows the latest bouquet—a cluster of yellow flowers[8]—still stands strong. So, nothing airborne to worry about. Probably.

_Holy crap, this is dumb. The younger “muggle” sister of the late Lily Potter should not be opening mysterious magical packages. Harry Potter’s **aunt** should not be opening mysterious magical packages._

“Oh my god, I’m Harry’s aunt, what the fuck,” Mari mutters, her hands stilling against the side of the box.

This is not news, but damned if Mari’s periodic recognition of this fact fails to throw her for a loop each time.

Mari shakes her head, both mentally and physically for emphasis, and unfolds the parchment. Something slips out and falls onto the floor. Her legs shake as she leans down to pick up a pressed white flower with pink accents. Spoonwood. When her gaze returns to the parchment, she finds smooth cursive in black ink.

_“For your health.”_

Mari raises an eyebrow and sets aside the note to dig beneath the packed straw. A nondescript bottle filled with a milky white liquid lies inside. She tests the weight of the potion in her hand, lips twisted and eyebrows furrowed. Her hand aches to squeeze around the glass until it shatters and the choice is taken away.

The owl clicks its beak again, but this time Mari only sighs and replaces the bottle back into its straw box. She leans toward the small pile of napkins beside the vase on her bedside table to pluck Allison’s pen off of her latest sketch. For a moment, she considers swapping the parchment for a blank napkin, but one glance at the owl’s sharp claws shreds that idea.

Mari taps her pen against the page of parchment for a beat, before electing to compromise. She writes her reply below Severus Snape’s smooth cursive with respectable cursive of her own.

_“Thank you, but even I know not to take candy from strangers.”_

After folding the parchment and smoothing the nail of her index finger down the crease, Mari tears the bottom half off. Her gaze flicks to the owl as she folds the piece of parchment with the note again. It’s a shame that Snape’s owl is so impatient—she would’ve loved to get a quick sketch in. Hospital equipment can only keep her interest for so long.

Mari sets the blank scrap of parchment on top of her napkin sketches and, recalling the Spoonwood left in Snape’s note, plucks one of the flowers from her latest bouquet to do the same.

“Hope this isn’t flower speak for fuck off.”

_Then again, Snape did send her the flower for **treachery** , so…_

Mari levers herself up and grits her teeth against the shake of her legs as she steps back to the owl’s side. It extends its leg without snapping, but Mari still holds her breath as she ties the note just above its sharp claws. The owl shuffles back. She has an apology half-formed on her lips for the lack of snacks to offer when it dives out the window.

Mari blinks and shuffles forward herself to peer out the window, but can’t trace where it went. The sky, presumably. She’s halfway to raising her arms to close the window when they fill with a sickly heat that almost numbs their shaking. Mari drops her arms back to her side with a quiet huff, resigned to Allison’s ire in the morning.

…

* * *

[8] Goldenrod, also known as “Solidago.” Associated with encouragement and growth.


	7. Of Marigolds & Snowdrops

“Mari,” Petunia says in an odd tone, “has someone else been visiting you?”

Mari follows her narrowed gaze to the vase of red, orange, and gold toned flowers[9] with a flick of her own. The sight of them makes her chest ache. The joy this particular bouquet had once brought her seems so far away now.

“Allison thinks they’re from a secret admirer.”

Petunia purses her lips. The resulting wrinkles speak of a life full of disapproving frowns.

“Allison?”

“My nurse.”

“Hm.”

Petunia takes a sip of her tea. Mari’s fingers curl further around her own in an effort to coax more warmth into her hands.

“Would that be so bad?” Mari wonders, an unnamable itch growing beneath her skin as her gaze drifts to the window. An odd, harsh streak of sunlight slashes through the glass, landing just on the sill.

Mari tries not to grit her teeth with the clink of Petunia’s cup to its saucer. She fails.

“Yes, it would. You’re too young to—”

“Am I?” Mari asks with a humorless laugh that deepens Petunia’s frown. “Too young?”

_Too old to live, too young to die. What a goddamn joke._

“You’ve only just woken up,” Petunia points out in an almost helpless tone. “You can’t possibly be thinking of dating already.”

“No,” Mari agrees with a wry smile. “I’m really not.”

Petunia huffs.

“How are you still so cryptic after all of these years?”

Mari’s fingers clench around her teacup.

“Was I?” Mari asks, quiet. “Cryptic, I mean.”

All of Petunia’s sharp edges seem to soften.

“Yes…you were always sneaking away with as many books as you could fit into your satchel. Mother and Father begged me to follow you once,” Petunia says, a wistfulness entering her tone. “I lost track of you after the library.” She levels a look at Mari. “Needless to say, I was furious over the lecture I knew I would receive when I returned home empty-handed.”

“Why? It wouldn’t be your fault if I was the one hiding…?”

Petunia opens and closes her mouth, her eyebrows high on her head.

“Well, I…I am your older sister.”

“And?” Mari asks, wrinkling her nose. “That doesn’t make it your fault, especially when it seems like I knew what I was doing…”

Petunia clears her throat. Mari waits for a response, but receives none.

“So,” Mari prompts. “Is that how it ended? With you returning home to get yelled at?”

Petunia shakes her head with a wry smile.

“No. Just as I passed under one of the trees in the courtyard to walk home, one of your trainers slipped off and struck me on my head.”

Mari sucks in a breath through her teeth.

“Yikes, that must’ve hurt. Uh, sorry…?”

Petunia shakes her head again, the smile curling her lips a little more genuine.

“Better your trainer than you.”

“I suppose that’s true. I would’ve been a lot heavier than a shoe.”

“No,” Petunia says, covering Mari’s left hand with her own. “Better that you didn’t get hurt.”

Mari blinks down at their hands.

“Oh.”

“I…I know things are different now,” Petunia murmurs, “but please believe me when I tell you that I want what’s best for you. Strange men leaving flowers at your bedside is not what’s best for you.”

Mari’s brows furrow.

“I know. That isn’t what I meant. I just…” Mari glances back to the window, at those blades of sunlight that cut all the more for their usual absence. “Is it so bad to want someone to talk to?”

Petunia’s fingers curl around Mari’s almost tight enough to hurt.

“You have me to talk to. You have your family.”

Mari meets her gaze.

“And what about the rest of my family? What about Harry?”

Petunia grimaces and tries to retract her hand. Mari retaliates by cradling it with her other.

“I’ve told you…the boy is disturbed—”

“Please, Petunia,” Mari implores. “Everyone else…is gone. All those years…” _And that potential to help…_ “…are gone. Can’t I have the chance to get to know the ones that are left?”

“You’ve met my Dudley,” Petunia points out, a sour twist to her lips.

“Yes, and I’d like to meet Harry, too.” Mari tries not to smile. “If you bring him around, I’ll promise not to run off with any strange men bearing bouquets...”

Petunia rolls her eyes and Mari already counts this as a win in her book.

“Yes, _alright,_ ” Petunia concedes, frowning, but no longer sour.

Mari flashes a grin and pats Petunia’s hand once before releasing her grip. Her tea has long gone cold, but the rush of liquid down her throat eases some of that itch beneath her skin.

…

When Petunia leaves and the blade of sunlight cutting through the window has softened into shadow, the bouquet beside Mari’s bed releases a familiar, if somewhat muted, series of pops.

Mari watches the red and golden tones drip off the shrinking petals to leave small, drooping white bulbs[10] in their place.

“Me too, buddy,” Mari murmurs to the bouquet.

Mari uncurls her fingers to reveal the small potion bottle in her hand and wishes that, just once, she could be a little more reckless. She watches the murky liquid shift behind the glass and tries to ignore the other word her mind helpfully supplies.

_Brave._

…

* * *

[9] Marigolds. See Footnote [[2]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22368637/chapters/53441050#_ftn2) in “Of Marigolds” for more detail.

[10] Snowdrops, also known as “Galanthus.” Associated with consolation or hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been following, commenting, and/or dropping kudos thus far!  
> Next chapter should be the much anticipated introduction of Harry Potter!  
> Here's hoping that I can make my self-appointed deadline next Friday... (งಠ_ಠ)ง


	8. Of Fox's Brush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The longest chapter thus far? And featuring Harry?? ╰(✿˙ᗜ˙)੭━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

Petunia stands in the doorway, her bony fingers curled around a little boy’s arm. From the give of his skin under the pad of her thumb to the subtle wince that shifts his dark hair from where he has tucked himself behind her leg, a few things become immediately clear: 1) Petunia is gripping this boy’s arm painfully tight, 2) this kind of subtlety is a conditioned response, and 3) this boy is obviously Harry Potter.

Mari has to swallow down the acrid _fury-hatred-disgust_ that pools in her mouth. Knowing is far different from witnessing.

Harry peers at her from behind Petunia’s gray skirt, his black-framed glasses resting heavy on his nose. Did the Dursleys find them in a bargain bin? Mari can’t quite imagine Petunia and Vernon taking Harry to the optometrist.

Everyone who has read the Harry Potter series knows that Harry’s early wardrobe is comprised of Dudley’s hand-me-downs. This isn’t exactly strange, as Mari recalls a similar trickling effect among her own siblings and their outgrown clothes. However, the way the shirt sleeves gape around his bony arms tells another tale.

Mari compares the memory of the nephew she left behind with the little boy standing across the room from her and can reach no other conclusion than that he isn’t being fed enough.

She wonders, idly, if anyone ever looked at her as a kid and saw the same signs.

“Hello,” Mari offers with a small smile and wave.

Harry steps further behind Petunia, his head turning away with obvious shyness. Mari’s heart flutters at the adorable reminder of her other—original?—nephew.

Except her other nephew always turned into his mother. Harry turns away.

“Stand up straight,” Petunia snaps, jerking him forward. “Don’t be rude. Tell your Aunt Marigold hello.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” Harry murmurs. “Um… Hi.”

“What did I say?” Petunia demands.

Harry winces.

“Hel-lo. Aunt Mari-gold.”

“Hi, Harry,” Mari offers again with a close-lipped smile to avoid baring her teeth at Petunia. “It’s nice to meet you! You can call me Auntie Mari.”

The quiet murmur of the equipment in Mari’s room only serves to highlight the awkward silence that settles across them. 

Back in her home universe, Mari adopted a more passive role with her nephew, allowing him to instigate their interactions. This isn’t to say that she avoided engaging, but he had been the first child among her siblings, and thus, a source of entertainment (and rivalry) by every other member of her family. She had no interest in competing for his attention, nor bombarding him with her presence as well. It made those moments when he sought her out all the sweeter.

No one competes for Harry’s attention here. Harry doesn’t curl into Petunia for comfort and Petunia’s fingers don’t card through his hair in offer of it.

“Well,” Mari claps her hands together and adopts the tone that has gotten her through many customer service landmines, “there’s only one chair in here, so why don’t you take that, Petunia—and Harry,” Mari pats the bed beside her, “you can sit with me!”

Petunia’s lips twist, but even she cannot stand against such reasonable cheeriness and releases Harry with a pointed nudge. Harry’s steps start out small and hesitant, but a look from Petunia has him trying to scramble up beside Mari.

“Would you like some help?” Mari asks in a soft murmur.

Harry flinches a little, but nods, and Mari picks him up from under his arms with the secure yet gentle grip she had honed over the years with her nephew. He shifts around on the bedding before stilling with a jerk that has Mari flicking her gaze to Petunia in her peripheral.

Mari’s eyes narrow, but in the next blink, she’s back to smiling between her guests.

“Well,” Mari says again, trying not to feel like a record skipping on the same note, “this is nice. I’d offer refreshments, but I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage here.”

A line, cast.

“Oh,” Petunia says with more warmth than she has shown since arriving with Harry in tow, “nevermind that, Mari. I’ve brought some Black tea for us to enjoy a cuppa together.”

Mari withholds a grimace and prepares to reel in this fish.

“How kind—I’m sure you can get some hot water from the nurse’s station.”

Petunia frowns, her gaze flicking to Harry.

The line is taut.

“It’s nearly lunch—your nurse won’t mind doing so when she comes to check on you.” Petunia’s expression pinches further. “Besides, I wouldn’t want you to become,” she narrows her eyes at Harry, “overwhelmed.”

The line snaps.

_Well, guess that’s what I get for faking a medical emergency the last time Petunia brought a child._

Mari shrugs. She never did like fishing, anyway.

“Alright. Until then,” Mari’s voice lilts as she turns to Harry on her left, “how old are you now?”

Harry opens his mouth—

“He’s five,” Petunia answers.

Harry’s mouth snaps shut.

“Oh, wow, you must be getting ready to start el— _primary_ school, then. Are you excited?”

“He won’t be attending this year,” Petunia interjects _again_.

Mari finally turns to Petunia, unable to keep the exasperation off of her face.

“Why not?”

Petunia grimaces.

“Vernon and I thought it best to…spare the other children.”

Mari blinks at her.

“Spare them…? From what?”

Whatever rude answer Petunia had locked and loaded is stalled by a familiar knock at the door. Allison strides in with the usual plastic tray, faltering only for a moment at the sight of Harry beside Mari, before placing her lunch on the table between her and Petunia.

“You must be Harry,” Allison says with a warm smile that softens the severity her tight bun tends to portray. “I’m Allison, Mari’s nurse. She has been going on about you nonstop.”

Harry looks between them, entirely befuddled.

“Really?”

“Of course,” Mari says, resisting the urge to kick Allison for outing her, before blurting, “couldn’t wait to meet the rest of the fam.”

“Fam?”

Three pairs of eyes stare at her—two of them like she has a few loose screws. If Mari had a mirror on hand, there’d be four. She has never spoken that word aloud in either of her lives. Until now. 

_Damn it, Allison._

This wouldn’t be a problem if Marigold Evans hadn’t spent a decade in a coma with the very real threat of brain damage upon waking.

How to explain that this Mari owns a mental screwdriver and can tighten her own loose screws, _thank you very much_.

“It’s slang for family,” Mari replies to Harry, and only Harry.

Harry nods in simple acceptance and Mari wants to hug him for being a solid kid, really, A+.

“Mrs. Dursley,” Allison murmurs in a tone that someone less familiar would mistake as nonchalant, “why don’t I show you to the nurse’s station? The kettle should be free now.”

Petunia glances at Mari, a peculiar look on her face, before shifting to Harry.

“Don’t give your Aunt Marigold any trouble,” Petunia says, stern.

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

Mari and Harry watch the two of them leave.

“Well, that was rude.”

Harry cringes and Mari’s already flapping her hands in denial, but that only makes him cringe _worse_ , so she drops her hands into her lap and stills.

“No, no, not you,” Mari rushes, “I meant those two.” She points her chin at the doorway. “They’re obviously sneaking away to gossip about me.”

Harry fiddles with the excess fabric of his navy shorts.

“Because you’re sick?”

Mari tilts her head.

“Oh, I’m not sick—uh, not anymore, anyway. I’m just…a little tired after sleeping too long. Have to rebuild my strength.”

Harry nods seriously.

“Sleeping too long is bad.”

“Well, sometimes you sleep longer because you need it.” Mari purses her lips. “Do Petunia and Vernon get mad when you do?”

Harry shrugs, but Mari notices his hands clenching where they rest on his upper thighs and how he avoids eye contact. His gaze drifts to the bushy clusters of small, crimson red flowers[11] that had taken residence this morning and she’s struck by the stray, possibly fanon thought, that he showed an interest in Petunia’s garden prior to receiving his letter for Hogwarts.

_Or maybe it was one of his chores…?_

Either way, Mari knows better than to look a gift topic-change in the mouth.

“Do you like them?” Mari asks. 

Harry tenses as though caught, but still manages a small nod. 

“You know,” Mari murmurs, like it’s a secret just for them, “you can step closer for a better look if you want.”

Harry meets her gaze then and, Mari will never admit this aloud but, his frown coupled with the distrustful narrowing of his eyes bears a striking resemblance to Petunia.

“C’mon.” 

Mari hefts herself to her feet and helps Harry slide down to the floor before making the circuit to the other side of her bed. When she reaches the end table bearing the bouquet, she plops back down onto the bed with a bounce and a dramatic sigh. Harry muffles a sound that Mari thinks might’ve been a giggle.

_Score 1 for Mari._

“What are they?” Harry asks, small hands stopping halfway to the flowers like they’ve hit an invisible barrier.

Mari might’ve suspected magic had she not witnessed Allison caressing the petals on occasion. 

“I don’t know,” Mari says, honestly. “They were here when I woke up.”

“Oh.”

“Pretty though, aren’t they?”

Harry nods for the umpteenth time and Mari wonders if he started quiet or if the Dursleys conditioned him that way. She watches Harry’s gaze fall to the stack of napkins and parchment beside the vase, his small hand clenching in the air.

“Oh, would you like to see my drawings?”

Harry’s nod is more enthusiastic this time. Mari smiles and picks up the stack, spreading them out across her bedding.

“Most of them are from this room, but—yes, that one is of an owl I saw outside my window once.”

Mari isn’t surprised Harry gravitates toward the owl sketches. As anatomically incorrect as they might be, they’re still far more interesting subject matter for a five-year-old than medical equipment, furniture, and studies of her water cup. The fact that she drew them on the scrap of parchment paper from Snape’s note only adds to their charm.

Harry presses his fingers to the edge of the parchment with unmistakable awe. Mari knows from experience that it isn’t difficult to impress a kid this young, but even so, his expression makes her heart clench.

“Would you like to keep it?”

Harry’s head whips up to stare at Mari with wide eyes.

“I can…I can have it?” Harry asks, tone quiet.

“Of course,” Mari smiles. “Just let me sign it first.”

Harry lifts his hands away and curls them into his pant legs. He watches Mari pick up the parchment with a despondency that suggests he expects her to rescind the offer at any moment.

“Let’s see,” Mari murmurs, tapping her finger to her lips before bringing pen to paper in the bottom right corner. “To Harry, Love, Auntie Mari,” she recites as she writes, ending with a flourish. “And I’ll even dot my ‘i’ with a heart because,” she levels him with a serious look, “this is serious business.”

Harry nods seriously at her and it takes all of Mari’s restraint not to laugh. She flicks her gaze to the left and is drawn to her bouquet of small crimson flowers.

“Oh, one more thing.” Mari plucks one of the bushy red clusters out by its green stem and folds the parchment around it. “Well, here you go.”

Mari offers the parchment to Harry and, after a brief moment of hesitation, he finally reaches out to take it. She busies herself with collecting the napkin doodles and pretends not to notice the way he clutches the items to his chest before slipping them into his oversized pockets.

Petunia returns with the usual kettle and tray, their teabags already steeping.

“I wouldn’t let him near your bouquet if you want to keep them,” Petunia sneers as she places the tray down on the table beside her lunch. “The boy can’t help but be destructive.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Mari says, waving away Petunia’s snide words like a bad smell and resolutely aiming a cheerful smile Harry’s way. _Just smile and wave, boys. Smile and wave._ “I’m sure he’ll be careful with them.”

Harry blinks up at Mari with wide eyes. He checks Petunia’s expression and Mari watches her frown deepen.

“What are those?” Petunia near demands.

Mari follows Petunia’s gaze to the napkins in her hands.

“Some of my sketches.”

“I didn’t know you could draw,” Petunia accuses.

“There’s little else to do in here.”

“Why are you doing it on napkins?”

Mari raises an eyebrow.

“Because it’s all I had…? I’m lucky Allison loaned me her pen,” Mari says. “Sitting in a small room with nothing to do would drive anyone crazy.”

Mari pointedly keeps her expression placid as she maintains eye contact with Petunia, unable to miss the way her “sister” flicks her gaze toward Harry.

“I’d love a book on the language of flowers,” Mari says to regain Petunia’s attention. “I wonder what all these different bouquets are supposed to mean…”

“What does it matter?” Petunia sniffs, reclaiming her seat primly.

Mari stands and shuffles around the bed, hiding a smile when Harry trails her. Petunia looks ready to spring from her seat at the first sign of a struggle—or maybe just the sight of her walking unaided.

“Mari—”

“I’m just curious,” Mari cuts Petunia off, giving a pointed bounce as she settles across from her. “It gets boring in here.”

Mari turns toward Harry and helps him back up onto the bed beside her.

“Hm.” Petunia watches them with a strange expression. Then her gaze flicks to the untouched lunch tray. “Mari, why haven’t you eaten yet?”

“I was waiting for you,” Mari replies, honestly.

After all, Mari wouldn’t waste her first chance alone with Harry stuffing her face. She does, however, regret not plying him with food while she had the chance.

“I—well. Eat up, Mari.” Petunia clears her throat. “Drink your tea before it grows cold.”

Mari nods, resigning herself to her coffee-less fate.

“Do you like apple juice, Harry?” Mari asks.

Harry nods. Mari plucks the plastic cup of apple juice off of her tray and hands it to him, before picking up her teacup. She maintains conversation with Petunia in between bites, letting her talk about Dudley and Vernon to her heart’s content.

And if Mari sneaks half of her lunch to Harry when Petunia is distracted, well, no one else has to know.

_Except hopefully child services someday soon because **what the fuck.**_

… 

* * *

[11] Fox’s Brush, also known as “red valerian,” “Centranthus ruber,” “spur valerian,” “kiss-me-quick,” “devil’s beard,” and “Jupiter’s beard.” Associated with readiness and an accommodating disposition.


	9. Of Chamomile & Marigolds

“Where’s _my_ ice cream?” Dudley demands.

Mari winces at the shrill note of her— _sigh_ —nephew’s voice. Her fingers clench around the paper of her dessert cup, growing numb from cold as the rest of her stalls from indecision. She can’t give into his demands. She knows this. Other spoiled children have tested her resolve in the past without success.

The problem is that she could always walk away before. Weather the tantrum until she deposits the kid back to their parent and makes a strategic retreat.

Dudley is propped on Petunia’s lap and glaring at her. Mari won’t compare his pale eyes to an abyss or the Eternal Void, but there is something rotting there. Like teeth half-corroded with too many sweets. 

_Technically, I **could** just walk out of here_, Mari thinks, and the image of the ensuing chaos this act would cause soothes some of the _trapped-flight-escape_ feelings fluttering in her chest.

“Perhaps,” Mari says, something reckless replacing that fluttering in her chest, “ _your_ ice cream is waiting to be asked for. _Politely._ ”

Mari smiles winningly at a gaping Dudley with probably too many teeth and pretends not to notice the way Petunia blinks at her in disbelief.

_Goddamn it, Mari!_

Mari takes a bite of her ice cream as she waits for the landmine she just stepped on to go off in a spectacular fashion. Dudley scowls at this and, if the growing redness of his face is any indication, is gearing up toward a tantrum. Petunia’s eyebrows furrow.

“I…well. _Of course,_ my Dudley knows his manners,” Petunia sniffs, turning Dudley toward her. “Now, Dudders, would you like some ice cream?”

Dudley clenches his chubby little fists.

“Yes! Ice cream!”

“Well, why don’t you sit right here with your Aunt Marigold,” Petunia says as she shifts out from underneath Dudley, leaving him in her seat, “while I go get you some. How does that sound, Pumpkin?”

“I want chocolate with sprinkles!”

“Of course,” Petunia smiles, before picking up her bag and turning toward Mari. “My Dudley has much better manners than our nephew, I’m certain you’ll find.”

Mari takes her turn to gape as Petunia just leaves the room. 

_Consequences_ , Mari thinks in the voice of John Wick.

“Where’s my toy?” Dudley asks.

“What?”

“ _My toy_ ,” Dudley stresses like Mari is stupid. “Aunt Marge always has a new toy for me when we visit.”

“Ah.” Mari clears her throat. “Sorry,” she says instinctively and immediately wants to smack herself, “I don’t have one.”

Dudley crosses his arms with a scowl.

“I hate this place.”

Mari hums.

“Be grateful you aren’t stuck here, then.”

“You don’t even have TV.”

Mari snorts.

“I know, right?”

Dudley starts kicking his heels against his chair, his scowl loosening into a frown.

“What is there to even do?”

Mari crosses her arms and leans back against her pillows.

“Nothing, really.” Mari tilts her head. “I draw.”

“That’s stupid,” Dudley says.

“Not if you like to draw,” Mari points out.

“Still stupid.”

Mari shrugs, gaze flicking to the bouquet of daisies[12] beside her bed.

“Do you have any games?”

“Nope.”

Dudley groans.

“This is so _boring_.”

“We could play _‘I Spy’_ ,” Mari offers.

Dudley’s scowl returns.

…

Mari swallows against an inexplicable urge to cry as she cradles the new sketchbook in her hands. Dudley hadn’t been wrong when he complained about how boring her hospital room is. Some days, she stares outside her window with that mysterious bottle clasped in her hand and yearns to take that leap if only to feel proactive.

Petunia’s reaction to Mari’s napkin sketches had been a little snooty, but Mari never thought she would do something like this—provide Mari with an alternative in a brand-new sketchbook and a set of drawing utensils after returning with Dudley’s ice cream.

Mari had incorrectly assumed the bag Petunia carried with her today contained something for Dudley.

“The gentleman at the art store recommended these,” Petunia says, one hand gesturing at the items while the other cards through Dudley’s hair as he eats his ice cream. “You won’t need to use _napkins_ anymore.”

Mari never much minded sketching on napkins when lacking an alternative, but she chooses to let Petunia’s snide opinion over the matter pass.

“Thank you,” Mari murmurs, hoping her earnestness is obvious to Petunia.

It must be, for Petunia’s resulting smile is a little softer than it usually is.

“You’re welcome, Mari.”

…

Mari opens the sketchbook to its first blank page and she taps her lips with one of her new pencils, wondering what she should draw first.

Her lips twist into a wry smile as the bouquet beside her **pop pop pops** until the red and gold blooms[13] return once again.

“Seems we have a volunteer.”

Mari turns toward the bouquet and props her sketchbook on her right knee, a thought coalescing with each swipe of her pencil across the page as she works to capture the vibrant petals.

_You’re a marigold, aren’t you?_

…

* * *

[12] Still Chamomile.

[13] Marigolds. See Footnote [[2]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22368637/chapters/53441050#_ftn2) in “Of Marigolds” for more detail.


	10. Of Chrysanthemums & Mariposa Lilies

“Ten.”

The exchange rate[14] can’t be too bad, can it?

“Ten quid?” Trevor, the night nurse, demands.

Okay, maybe it is. Unless he’s just cheap. 

Either way, too late now.

“Yes,” Mari replies.

“I could draw it myself.”

“Do it, then.”

Trevor and Mari eye each other, silent but for the buzzing of the florescent lights overhead.

“Fine,” Trevor concedes, shuffling his feet. “But this better be good.”

“Money up front.”

Trevor blinks at Mari hard. Much like she imagines he does in her bathroom mirror during the customary lull in his 2am cleaning.

“Consider it my insurance,” Mari says.

“What about me?”

“Well,” Mari gestures around the room, “you’ll know where to find me.”

Trevor squints at her before shoving his hand into his pocket with a heavy sigh.

“Yeah, alright.”

Trevor pulls out the money and Mari takes the extended bill with a serious nod, swallowing back her smile.

“One bouquet, coming up,” Mari says, her gaze settling on the bouquet of white blossoms[15] at her bedside. 

Mari studies the series of small petals that make up each blossom, considering the best way to capture how they fade to green in the middle. A familiar and comforting scratch of pencil against paper fills the room as she systematically blots out the bouquet’s form, glancing up regularly to gauge the shape and lighting.

Movement in her peripheral draws her focus to Trevor. He is staring at the bouquet, his gaze distant even as he sweeps one of his thumbs across the palm of his other hand. Several strands of his sandy hair have escaped the ponytail at the base of his neck, making him seem haggard and worn.

Mari pauses with her pencil poised over the page.

“I can draw something else, if you’d rather…?”

Trevor blinks and meets Mari’s gaze, before flicking to the page.

“No, I think she’ll like this…”

“She?”

“My wife.” Trevor’s lips curl at the corners. “I don’t think anyone’s given her flowers before.”

Mari takes stock of the pad of paper in her lap, the pencil in her hand, and the first bit of money she has earned in this life and sighs.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather use this money towards a real bouquet?”

Trevor’s eyebrows raise, but his smile widens.

“Absolutely.” Trevor huffs a laugh when Mari just squints at him. “She has a severe allergy.”

Mari blinks.

“Oh. Nevermind, then.”

Mari settles back into her sketch and it isn’t until Trevor starts making his usual sweep of her bathroom that she realizes she’s smiling.

…

Petunia steps through the doorway, her bony fingers curled around Harry’s arm in what might’ve been a mirror of their last visit together, if not for the following distinct changes: 1) If Petunia’s grip hurts, Harry shows no sign of it, 2) rather than hide behind Petunia’s pastel blue skirt, he stands beside her, and 3) he is staring over Mari’s left shoulder with an unsettling level of scrutiny.

Mari hopes her smile remains genuine, even as she sneaks a glance at the bouquet in her peripheral. Still full of the same white and green blossoms as before…

“Hey, guys.” Mari waves and pretends she misses Petunia’s grimace.

“I am not a _guy_ , Mari,” Petunia sneers. She glares down at Harry. “What did I say about manners?”

“Hello, Auntie Mari,” Harry recites, meeting Mari’s gaze for the duration before returning it to the bouquet.

Petunia looks ready to reprimand Harry for that too, so Mari sweeps her arms in a wide gesture to regain her attention.

“Well, have a seat you two,” Mari instructs, making a show of giving Petunia her undivided attention. “How was the trip?”

Mari maintains that front of undivided attention on Petunia as the two take their seats. She powers through the usual small talk with Petunia, but Harry makes it difficult. For the first time, he seems like any other kid—squirming in his seat and eager to do something.

Unfortunately, attempts to ignore Harry aside, Petunia also notices.

“Stop fidgeting,” Petunia snaps.

Mari forces herself to look on the bright side and take the opportunity to look more closely at Harry herself. Although he cringes a bit now at the attention—from Petunia or herself, Mari can’t know for sure—something of that restlessness still persists. 

Curiosity burns in a way that occupying the same set of four bland walls 24/7 can do to a person like Mari, who spent most of her time on _her_ version of Earth consuming a minimum of two, if not three, sensory inputs at a time.

“Oh, Petunia, I can’t believe I forgot—my nurse, you know, Allison, she said she’d like to speak to you about something…?” Mari scrunches her face in cheerful confusion.

Petunia huffs out a sigh and stands, smoothing her skirt primly.

“I’m beginning to wonder if these people are as qualified to handle your care as we were led to believe.

Mari stills.

“No, it’s—Allison is great,” Mari mentally flinches at how this only seems to deepen Petunia’s scowl, “I mean—”

Petunia sighs.

“Don’t worry yourself, Mari,” Petunia says, her tone softening for a moment before hardening as she levels a glare at Harry. “And you—be on your best behavior.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” Harry chimes.

Several moments pass once Petunia leaves the room before Harry whips toward Mari and she flinches back. They both grimace—for different reasons—but Harry sticks a hand in his pocket and carefully pulls out a familiar white and green blossom with an unusual look of resolve.

Mari blinks at the blossom.

“Oh…that’s a pretty flower,” Mari says, offering a tentative smile. “Did you get it from Petunia’s garden?”

Harry frowns at the mention of Petunia, but his resolve doesn’t waver.

“You gave it to me.”

Mari straightens.

“Oh.”

The blossom in Harry’s fist begins to shake and for a moment, Mari thinks the bouquet is changing again. In the next, she realizes the shaking is coming from his hand.

But Harry doesn’t look scared.

“How?”

Mari looks into Harry’s wide eyes, at the taut way he holds himself, at the gentle grip he maintains on that blossom, besides. To claim she couldn’t look into that face and tell him anything but the truth—well. It would be a lie.

The truth is that Mari _could_ lie. She could spin any number of stories to explain and she could justify it to herself as a safety measure, regardless of her own guilt.

In the end, Mari lets herself smile and do what she really wants—what the little girl she used to be, the one who watched _Matilda_ over and over and wondered and hoped, would have wanted for herself.

“Magic,” Mari says.

Harry frowns.

“There’s no such thing as magic.”

The obvious mimicry of Vernon makes Mari’s heart ache, even as something else flares within her. Who the hell tells a child that magic isn’t real? And even knowing the answer to that fails to lessen the burn.

A familiar series of pops that almost sound like the crackle of a campfire fill the room and Harry gasps, staring over Mari’s left shoulder with wide eyes. She follows his gaze to her bouquet of white and green blossoms, which are rapidly being overtaken by red flowers comprised of three wide petals with another three narrow, almost clawed ones occupying the spaces between them[16].

Mari whips back around at Harry’s quiet cry coupled with a familiar pop behind her and sees the blossom on the ground between them, now as red and curled as the others.

“Are you okay?”

Harry stares at the ground in awe. Once Mari’s words register, he hunches down and picks the flower up with far more care than she would expect from most, let alone a child.

“That,” Harry breathes, cradling the flower in his palms, “that was magic…?”

“Yes.”

Harry looks up at her.

“Are _you_ magic?”

And something in Mari hurts—some small part of her that always thought she might be, might find out _one day_ , only to die and steal it from someone else.

So, Mari takes a deep breath herself, smiles, and nods.

“Wow…” 

Harry curls one of his thumbs in to brush the edge of a petal and Mari’s smile grows more genuine.

“Am I,” Harry whispers, gaze still locked on the flower, “Am I magic, too?”

Mari leans forward, her elbows on her knees, and hunches until they’re at eye level.

“Yer a wizard, Harry,” Mari says, just barely able to hold in a laugh as she’s filled with unholy glee.

* * *

[14] In 1985, the exchange rate between the British Pound and the U.S. Dollar ranged from £1 = $1.05-$1.49. Due to inflation, which Mari has forgotten about in this moment, £10 in 1985 would equate to £30.53 in 2019.

[15] Chrysanthemums, also known as “mums” or “chrysanths.” Associated with honesty, fidelity, optimism, joy, long life, and loyal love.

[16] Mariposa Lilies, also known as, “Butterfly Mariposa Lilies,” (“mariposa” being Spanish for butterfly). Associated with healing and nurturing the bereft, as well as receptiveness and purity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've really appreciated all of the comments and feedback this story has gotten. It's still so shocking to me that so many people are enjoying this. So, thank you.
> 
> Fun Fact: I briefly considered Mariposa instead of Marigold for Mari(y). It was hard not to gravitate toward a flower which, based on my research, was said to symbolize caring for neglected or abandoned children. However, there was something so much more compelling to me about the bright, eye-catching marigold with its dichotomous meanings. And, of course, getting to see that vibrancy/color mirrored in the character's design in a way that's relevant to the narrative.


	11. Of Dogwood Flowers

Petunia returns before Harry has a chance to ask any other questions, but thankfully, Mari manages to distract her well enough for him to slide the flower back into his pocket unnoticed.

Mari pulls out her sketchbook and flips to some of her still life drawings, which seem to delight Petunia as much as she hoped they would.

“Is this one of my teacups?” Petunia asks, almost quiet, as her fingers brush the edge of the page. “Of course, it is,” she continues before Mari can confirm, returning to a more familiar tone. “The staff here have little consideration for their guests.”

Mari grimaces and rolls her eyes. A quiet noise makes her shoulders jump and her gaze flick toward the source of the sound—Harry? They blink at each other and glance toward Petunia, who, thankfully, is still too riveted by the sketch and her own thoughts to pay them any attention. Mari offers Harry a small smile, which grows when he returns it.

Mari returns her attention to Petunia. Snide comments aside, there’s something about the look on Petunia’s face that makes her feel…

“Do you want it?” Mari asks in a stilted tone.

Petunia’s gaze flicks back to Mari, a furrow to her brows.

“Oh, I…” Petunia clears her throat. “If you don’t mind?”

Mari quickly shakes her head.

“Not at all.”

Petunia and Harry watch as Mari pulls the drawing from the pad of sketch paper, careful to keep the bound edge from ripping.

“Want me to sign it?” Mari jokes, extending the page toward Petunia.

“Of course,” Petunia replies, her hands clasped in her lap.

Mari blinks and draws the page back toward herself. She clears her throat.

_Well, that was stupid._

“Oh, my pencil’s a little dull,” Mari says, “Better sharpen it.”

Mari keeps her movements steady, hoping that it doesn’t look like she’s stalling as she reaches for her sharpener on her bedside table. 

From or Love? Which one is correct? From feels truer, but might hurt Petunia if she expected a Love. If only Mari could know what Petunia expects…

Mari glances up at Petunia, at her small smile and the unusual softness of her pale gaze and—well, is it unusual, though? Hasn’t Petunia shown an odd amount of care for Mari—for **Marigold Evans** , the younger sister she has so missed? The only sister she has left?

Love is probably the correct answer, but Mari’s hand is too heavy to write it.

_Mari_ , she signs with a normal dot to the “i,” and tries not to hate herself when Petunia accepts the drawing from her with an ~~un~~ precedented amount of care.

It gets harder when Mari notices the confusion on Harry’s face—maybe wondering why she signed his differently. For once, Mari is almost grateful for the strained relationship between Harry and Petunia.

And that is when Mari loses the battle with her own guilt.

…

“Listen,” Allison says, sometime after Petunia and Harry have left, “I understand if you need a break from your family, but next time give me a little warning, okay?”

Mari looks up from her sketchbook to quirk a smile at Allison.

“I thought you’d be happy I didn’t fake an emergency this time.”

Allison purses her lips, propping her hands on her hips as she stands at the end of Mari’s hospital bed.

“I have other patients to take care of, you know.”

Mari drops her gaze back to her sketchbook.

“Right.”

Mari’s eyes burn. She swallows.

Allison sighs.

“Oh, those are new.”

Mari continues to stare at her sketchbook, rather than follow Allison’s gaze toward the bouquet of white blossoms comprised of four heart-shaped petals surrounding a green middle[17] that popped into existence after Petunia and Harry left.

“Mari.”

“Yeah?”

“What’s going on?” Allison asks. “You’ve been staring at that blank page since I walked in.”

“Nothing.”

The shift of weight at the end of Mari’s bed has her looking up in surprise.

“Is it because of what I said?” Allison asks, a furrow to her brow.

Mari blinks.

“No, no, you were right.” Mari smiles. “I shouldn’t bother you so much—you’re busy.”

Allison frowns at her.

“You aren’t bothering me, Mari.” Allison’s tone brooks no argument. “I just don’t appreciate being blindsided by your sister. You know I like spending time with you.”

Mari stares at her.

“Oh.”

Allison rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, oh. C’mon, you might be young, but we both know you’re smarter than that.”

Mari snorts.

“Uh, huh. Right.”

“Right,” Allison concludes, squinting at Mari. “So, I heard you started your own business?”

Mari shrugs.

“I guess.”

“Does your sister know about it?”

Mari frowns and closes her sketchbook.

“No.”

“Did…something happen?” Allison asks, her own frown back. “You were so upbeat after Harry's last visit...”

Mari taps her fingernail on the cover of her sketchbook, a horrible, twisting feeling curling up in her chest.

“What do you think of Harry?” Mari asks in a measured tone.

“Could use a haircut, I think, but he’s adorable.” Allison waits for Mari to say something, but the moment continues long enough for curiosity to get the better of her. “Why do you ask?”

“Did you know that he’s my late sister’s son?” Mari asks, still tapping.

Allison blinks at her.

“Oh, is he? I just assumed he was your sis—Petunia’s.”

“You’ve seen Dudley.”

Allison tilts her head.

“They are quite different, aren’t they?”

Mari stops tapping.

“Interesting _how_ different they are…don’t you think? Considering that they’ve grown up together.”

Allison opens her mouth, but whatever she might’ve said is swallowed in a ruckus outside the room.

“Sorry, Mari, have to go,” Allison throws out just before clearing the doorway.

Mari watches her go before curling around the sketchbook in her lap, pressing her palm to her forehead in the hopes that the pressure will smother her thoughts along with that sick feeling of betrayal in her chest.

* * *

[17] Dogwood Flowers, also known as “Cornus florida.” Associated with rebirth, resurrection, purity, durability, reliability, strength and resilience, as well as pity and regret over a situation beyond your control or a signal of affection to someone who may not reciprocate. During the Victorian era, a bachelor would offer a sprig to a potential lover. A returned flower meant rejection. If the recipient kept the flower, however, this signified interest or mutual attraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, can't thank any of you enough for your comments. They really keep me motivated. <3
> 
> January 30, 2021: I've updated the footnote links in each chapter so that they should work while reading this story in "Entire Work" mode now.


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